


One Night in Bree

by ThirteenthHour



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Thorin and Gandalf's ongoing pissing contest, Thorin has more baggage than a drag queen on a road trip, copious beer, dwarves are non-binary, dwarves happen to people, implied gender-bending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:43:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirteenthHour/pseuds/ThirteenthHour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Gandalf the Grey meets far many dwarves than he reckoned for, and is obligated to buy them beer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night in Bree

The Istari Olorin, commonly known as Gandalf, was having a good day. Had been. Possibly still was. Quite frankly, he couldn't begin answer that particular question, because dwarves had happened.

Dwarves!

A dwarf had happened, thus precipitating the other dozen. The other dozen. Now that was a phrase he'd never hoped to utter, even in the privacy of his own mind, especially when drinks were on him (figuratively. Mostly.)

Dwarves!

Of course they, or at least the first one, had transformed a decent day into a deeply satisfying one to begin with. This came about for the simple reason that mysteries bothered Gandalf. If curiosity may be said to reside in the nose, and one may observe without finding oneself turned into anything...unnatural, that Gandalf had a very large nose, then one may begin to understand how great a problem mysteries posed by stating that they made his curiosity itch. 

The particular enigma of the mad old dwarf in the dungeons of Dol Goldur had been lodged in his sinuses like an angry hedgehog for well over a year. And then, just this morning, he'd all but tripped over the smith one of Bree's richer and more tasteful farm-wives had hired to design and fashion some new-fangled architectural machine.

If the little fellow didn't overwork himself so direly, Gandalf would never have recognised him. As it was, being on the receiving end of a haggardly wary stare and brusque apology felt like a great big sneeze. A-HA! 

In the dim dawn light, after a night of hard work, sweaty and sooty, he looked, for a fraction of a moment, just like his...hm, let's see...Thror's death at Azanulbizar had been confirmed by multiple reliable sources, and, while the aging properties of dungeons and the activities carried on therein made identification of the poor creature who'd given him the key shaky at best, this fellow looked too young to be Thrain...just like his...best make that "father."

"Thorin!"

He whirled on his heel, looking first startled and then pleased and, for a heartbeat, Gandalf actually thought he had him. Few people, and among them even fewer dwarves, aren't susceptible to pride - after all, where would a craftsman be who doesn't take pride in his work and thus pleasure in recognition for it? Gandalf felt quite pleased with himself, for all of the minute and a half it took Thorin son of Thrain, despite preening a little, to flatly refuse to extend his bath-and-breakfast break to include conversation. That evening, he said. If you buy us drinks.

"Who might 'us' be?"

"A few loyal friends," said Thorin, with the narrow-eyed stare Gandalf had already learned meant that he would clam right up if pressed further. If only he had! As it was, if this handful of lunatics failed to retake Erebor, he'd be broke til doomsday. Damn Thorin!

He'd begun to worry, and to count, with the simultaneous arrival of Thorin's sister-sons - six, seven - and lost count when someone barreled into him with a joyous bellow in Khuzdul, hugged him, stumbled back, stared at him, turned the colour of a sun-dried tomato, yanked the towel around his waist firmly back in place, and scurried off. Gandalf only barely reminded himself that a wizard has no need to inquire, aloud, if that dwarf really WAS wearing nothing but a towel around the waist and an axe. In his head. Which is not the normal place for an axe.

And by then, the number of dwarves had nearly doubled. He might have cursed. If so, he hoped no one heard it. It seemed a sound hope - he'd never seen the Prancing Pony this packed before, with most people making enough noise for three.

"How much," he hissed in Thorin's ear, eyes fixed firmly on the offending party, "does the fat one drink?"

"More than Fili and Kili," came the quiet answer, with a nod to the nephews and without bothering to glance at Gandalf.

More than both of them? He could have sworn that they were each on their seventh! They were freely swapping drinks, too, not only between one another but also with whichever of their neighbours had the fullest tankard. The formerly-towel-clad one didn't seem to mind, but the fellow with a hairstyle like a damned morningstar had already boxed the taller, dark-haired one - Kili? - quite soundly over the ears. Star-head made no such offer to the next dwarf who swiped their beer, a tattooed and powerfully built individual scraping the cusp of five feet tall, and nearly as broad across the shoulders, who casually quaffed the other dwarf's freshly refilled stout before dropping like a sack of lead into the seat to the right of Thorin.

Fili and Kili - why oh why did dwarves insist on rhyming use-names!? - had progressed to their eighth or ninth drink. He didn't even care to contemplate how many the fat one had had.

"When you said 'a few friends,' Thorin, did you mean...Allow me to rephrase." Gandalf drew a deep breath, held it, and let it out through his nose. "My dear dwarf, is anyone of your acquaintance not with us tonight?"

"My sister Dis has remained in Ered Luin to lead our people in my absence, along with Gimli, Gloin's heir." Thorin nodded toward a short dwarf with an immense bushy red beard, and took a thoughtful sip of his fine (expensive) red wine. Gandalf watched him closely while he in turn watched his rowdy compatriots with firelight and affection reflected in eyes that smiled far more often than his mouth. "Bombur's wife stayed as well - she's Captain of the Guard." This time, he indicated the fat dwarf - and Gandalf nearly choked on his brandy as Thorin glanced up at him with unmistakable mischief. "Balin son of Fundin, on the other hand, shall join us as soon as flaurgh!"

"Hush," said the wizard gently, peering into Thorin's indignant grey eyes above the hand he'd just clamped firmly over the dwarf's mouth. "Now, if you'll pl-" Which was when he discovered that the rightful King Under the Mountain had no sense of self-preservation.

"You are aiming to be king under an anthill!" He snatched his hand back and glowered impressively at Thorin, who not only failed to be impressed but also looked suspiciously close to laughter at the sight of the wizard surreptitiously scrubbing dwarf spittle off his hand onto the knee of his robe.

"You wouldn't." He took another sip of his wine - definitely smiling into it, curse him.

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because I'm useful."

No smile now, and no hesitation, either. Gandalf held his breath until he could trust it not to catch on its way out. That matter-of-fact fatalism showed an intuition deeper than cunning and a world-weariness which rang far truer than stuffy dignity to the core of a king who had led his people unbowed and unbroken through mad kings and rapacious dragons, awful battles and a century and a half of exile in a world uncaring at best for those who did not belong.

Worst of all, he entertained no doubt that Thorin had meant to show him that. For all their cunning, dwarves are forthright and this, Thorin told him, is what you're getting into. If it was to be a battle of wit and will, Gandalf had, with an impatient grumble and a wry smile, to cede the first round to Thorin son of Thrain. If only he could do the same with the tab!


End file.
